Stolen Genius, Reclaimed Fate

Stolen Genius, Reclaimed Fate

Gavin

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My whole life was focused on one goal: Harvard. I was Sarah Miller, the academic star, future astrophysicist, and that scholarship was my family's only way out of our small New England town. Just days after acing another SAT practice test, my best friend Chloe, with her cheerleader ponytail swinging, handed me a shiny "friendship locket" for good luck. Suddenly, my perfect scores plummeted, while Chloe' s, who usually struggled, inexplicably soared. Then, a chilling conversation overheard outside the library confirmed my worst fears: Chloe and Ethan, my childhood friend and the boy I might have loved, had deliberately used the cursed antique locket from Mr. Abernathy' s shop to swap my academic luck for Chloe' s gain. My actual SAT scores were a disaster, shattering my Harvard dream and my mother's hopes as her health faltered under the stress. Ethan, to shield Chloe from a plagiarism charge, brazenly framed me, leading to my National Honor Society revocation, lost scholarships, and public humiliation as a "cheater." Later, after Ethan rushed off to save Chloe, leaving me besieged by a vengeful clique vandalizing my car, he returned only to plant fabricated evidence that caused my mother to collapse. How could my closest friends, who should have been my anchors, orchestrate such a cruel, calculated betrayal, then watch my life unravel without a flicker of remorse? The injustice burned, transforming my despair into a cold, sharp rage. They believed they had dealt with the 'naive bookworm' and that I would just "be fine." They were profoundly mistaken. My revenge would begin by turning their own vile magic against them.

Introduction

My whole life was focused on one goal: Harvard.

I was Sarah Miller, the academic star, future astrophysicist, and that scholarship was my family's only way out of our small New England town.

Just days after acing another SAT practice test, my best friend Chloe, with her cheerleader ponytail swinging, handed me a shiny "friendship locket" for good luck.

Suddenly, my perfect scores plummeted, while Chloe' s, who usually struggled, inexplicably soared.

Then, a chilling conversation overheard outside the library confirmed my worst fears: Chloe and Ethan, my childhood friend and the boy I might have loved, had deliberately used the cursed antique locket from Mr. Abernathy' s shop to swap my academic luck for Chloe' s gain.

My actual SAT scores were a disaster, shattering my Harvard dream and my mother's hopes as her health faltered under the stress.

Ethan, to shield Chloe from a plagiarism charge, brazenly framed me, leading to my National Honor Society revocation, lost scholarships, and public humiliation as a "cheater."

Later, after Ethan rushed off to save Chloe, leaving me besieged by a vengeful clique vandalizing my car, he returned only to plant fabricated evidence that caused my mother to collapse.

How could my closest friends, who should have been my anchors, orchestrate such a cruel, calculated betrayal, then watch my life unravel without a flicker of remorse?

The injustice burned, transforming my despair into a cold, sharp rage.

They believed they had dealt with the 'naive bookworm' and that I would just "be fine."

They were profoundly mistaken. My revenge would begin by turning their own vile magic against them.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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